Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Looks a bit like that ex-squaddie I was doing background on,’ said Cooper, fumbling with his keyboard. ‘David Fry.’

  ‘It’s not him,’ said Noble. ‘McConnell didn’t ID his mugshot.’

  ‘Who’s David Fry?’ enquired Charlton.

  ‘A neighbour with form,’ said Noble. ‘Ex-army.’

  ‘So he knows about guns.’

  ‘I wondered when we’d get to him,’ said Caskey. ‘I arrested him a couple of times for various drunken scuffles and I noticed he was taking an unnatural amount of interest in Tuesday’s crime scene when I was briefly there.’

  ‘What do we have on him?’ said Charlton.

  Cooper clicked his mouse to load a photograph of the shaven-headed ex-soldier. ‘Returned from a tour of Afghanistan eighteen months ago and has had a few problems reintegrating. As DS Caskey said, he’s been tugged for drunkenness and affray.’

  ‘I was reading that the army’s had more casualties from post-battlefield suicides than were killed by Afghan insurgents,’ said Banach. ‘Doesn’t make him a murderer.’

  ‘Any hint of serious violence?’ asked Charlton.

  ‘Isn’t being a soldier a hint?’ said Caskey.

  ‘Check out his service record,’ ordered Charlton.

  ‘In the works, sir,’ replied Cooper.

  ‘Did Fry’s name come up in the canvass?’ asked Caskey.

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Morton. ‘The next-door neighbour, Heather Sampson, remembered him pounding on the Gibsons’ front door last year. She couldn’t say why, just that he was angry and shouting to be let in.’

  ‘This is the first I’m hearing of it,’ exclaimed Brook.

  ‘Sorry, but the poor old girl’s been in hospital with shock,’ said Morton. ‘It was a while ago and she only just remembered and mentioned it to one of the SOCOs after she got home.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  Brook’s expression betrayed impatience. ‘No, when was Fry banging on the Gibsons’ door?’

  Morton checked his notebook. ‘Just before Christmas.’

  ‘Nearly a year ago,’ said Brook. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Unknown,’ said Morton. ‘Apparently the Gibsons were out. He was there for a few minutes, hammering and shouting, then he went away and that was it.’

  ‘Any other neighbours corroborate?’ asked Noble. Morton shook his head.

  ‘An unresolved conflict with an ex-soldier,’ said Charlton. ‘Does he have weapons?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a licence,’ said Cooper.

  ‘He’s ex-army,’ said Morton. ‘My brother’s in the Royal Marines and reckons squaddies always leave a posting with guns they’ve picked up locally. They smuggle them back in their kit for souvenirs.’

  ‘Married?’ asked Banach.

  ‘Ten years, no children,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Well he’s got more of a connection to the Gibsons than the rest of the estate,’ said Charlton. ‘That’s three viable suspects already, Brook.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Gibson, Fry and this man at Frazer and Nolan’s party.’

  ‘At least two shooters right there,’ observed Caskey mischievously.

  ‘And if the unidentified partygoer had lost his wife, we can assume he was heterosexual,’ added Charlton.

  ‘We assume nothing,’ said Brook quietly. ‘He may have had a dead wife, but plenty of gay men feel the need to hide their sexuality behind a conventional marriage.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but if he was straight and went to a gay party—’

  ‘It wasn’t a gay party, sir,’ said Banach softly. ‘It was a party.’

  ‘But the point is it’s possible he felt uncomfortable when he realised the sexuality of other guests,’ insisted Charlton. ‘Threatened, even.’

  Caskey grunted doubtfully. ‘If he did feel homophobic rage, it would have manifested at the party, sir. And even assuming he could control his anger, to return months later and kill Frazer and Nolan means he nurtured the kind of hate that would produce a savagery which was sorely missing from the victims’ corpses. The victims I saw, at least.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Brook. ‘These are definitely not hate crimes. The opposite, if anything.’

  ‘Then what about Gibson?’ said Charlton, a little chastened to have his detecting abilities undermined. ‘His parents lived in his property, so that’s his door David Fry was banging on. Do they know each other?’

  ‘Gibson says not,’ said Brook.

  ‘Dig deeper, Brook,’ said Charlton, standing. ‘And keep me informed. I’m briefing the press and TV this evening and I want you sitting beside me, so make sure you have something of substance to announce.’

  ‘Can’t do it, sir,’ replied Brook, his features hardening. ‘I’m officially on leave.’ Charlton glared at him, preparing his riposte.

  ‘Happy to sit in with you, sir,’ said Caskey before the Chief Superintendent could verbalise a complaint.

  Charlton stared at Brook, then nodded at Caskey. ‘Very well. Might look good after all the nonsense about your former DI. Make sure you’re up to speed on the Gibson inquiry.’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ quipped Caskey.

  ‘Result,’ mumbled Noble to Brook, when the briefing had ended.

  ‘You think so?’ Brook’s eyes were on Caskey, chatting earnestly with Cooper.

  ‘Don’t tell me you enjoy holding Charlton’s hand with the media.’

  Brook turned to Noble. ‘No, I don’t. But DI Ford has retired, John.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So if the budget allows, a deserving DS is going to get promoted.’

  Noble also fixed his eyes on Caskey. ‘See what you mean.’ He shrugged. ‘Well she’s certainly impressive.’

  ‘Apart from one thing,’ said Brook.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She wants it too much.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because when she found out that Gibson is gay, she had the perfect opportunity to defend Ford’s sex killer theory.’

  ‘So why didn’t she?’

  ‘Because Ford is history and now she’s playing the game with different contestants.’

  Noble nodded. ‘And playing it well.’

  While Noble nipped out to the car park for a crafty cigarette before their drive over to Boulton Moor, Brook sidled across to DC Cooper, busily tapping away at his keyboard. ‘Dave,’ he said, part greeting, part enquiry.

  Without reply, Cooper looked around the room before handing over a thick folder.

  Brook nodded his thanks and left the incident room, marching briskly to his car. Once there, he dropped the file on the passenger seat and took a quick inventory of its contents. Everything was there. Forensic reports, witness statements, photographs of the crime scene as well as Ray Thorogood’s cottage, transcripts of text messages and a disc of CCTV footage taken at Black Oak Farm. Brook only needed one more piece of information that wasn’t in the file. He texted his query to Cooper.

  A minute later, his phone vibrated. It was a text from Terri.

  Don’t contact me, Dad. I’m okay. Just need some time.

  He frantically tapped at the screen to phone his daughter, but by the time he’d hit the speed dial, her mobile had been turned off again.

  ‘Damn it, Terri,’ he cursed.

  Before he could compose a message to her, a text arrived from Cooper, and Brook noted down the address he needed for the afternoon.

  A tap on the window made him jump.

  Noble stood at the passenger window. ‘Ready?’

  Without wishing to, Brook glanced down guiltily at the bulging folder on the passenger seat. Noble followed his gaze, so Brook leapt from the BMW, leaving the manila folder on the seat.

  ‘We’ll take your car, John.’

  Fifteen

  Noble parked the car outside the Gibson crime scene, next to two scientific support vehicles. Activity had dwindled and the knot of watching spectators had
followed suit now that the bodies of the victims had been removed and the TV cameras departed. Scene-of-crime officers were still doing tests, steadily trudging back and forth to the house, but they too would soon be finished and the property would be sealed.

  Noble locked the car and the pair walked away from the crime scene. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Going on?’

  ‘The file in your car. The furtive conversations with Cooper. The problems you’re having with Terri.’

  ‘You’d make a good detective, John,’ quipped Brook, trying to put Noble off the scent.

  ‘I should mind my own business, is that it?’

  Brook hesitated, then nodded at their destination. ‘Number thirty-two.’ Noble frowned. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘So it is to do with Terri.’

  Brook opened the wooden gate and headed towards the front door. Long grass covered the garden. ‘We’re having … problems. Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘Is this to do with the abuse?’

  Brook found Noble’s eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not station gossip. She let slip something a couple of years ago, that time you spent a night in hospital. I read between the lines.’

  ‘And you said nothing for two years.’

  Noble shrugged. ‘I respect your privacy.’

  ‘So what changed?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Brook rapped firmly with the door knocker. ‘Like I said. It’s nothing.’

  The door was opened by a full-figured woman in jeans and baggy jumper, perhaps thirty-five though she looked older around the eyes. Cigarette smoke floated sinuously from hand up to face. ‘You lot again,’ she said with a resigned sigh.

  Noble smiled. ‘Mrs Fry?’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Is your husband in?’

  ‘Pubs aren’t open for half an hour. Where else would he be? Who’s he smacked around this time?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Brook. ‘We’re talking to everyone about the Gibson murder.’

  ‘We already said our piece yesterday. We didn’t see nothing, we don’t know nothing.’

  ‘We just have a few more questions.’

  After a beat, she stepped back from the door, taking a long drag on her cigarette and turning to holler over her shoulder. ‘Davey. Police.’

  Brook and Noble followed her down the hall as she padded back into the dark interior and pushed open a door. Without breaking stride, she gestured to the room on her right before wandering off in apparent indifference to the kitchen at the back of the house.

  In the living room, the burly, shaven-headed ex-soldier Brook had seen a couple of days ago lay sprawled across a white leather sofa, the console of an Xbox in his huge hands. He was playing a muted game involving racing cars though Brook could hear faint noise leaking from a pair of headphones on the floor. Fry had a cigarette jammed between his lips and an open can of beer at his feet and wore the same tatty, paint-stained fatigues, with a sleeveless T-shirt in camouflage green.

  Seeing Brook and Noble, he sat up, swinging his bare feet to the carpet, but remained resolutely seated and examined the brandished warrant cards thoroughly before pausing his game. ‘Help you?’ he asked, his voice hoarse with tar.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  Fry removed his cigarette and extinguished it between his fingers. ‘If this is about the Gibson murders, I spoke to one of your lot yesterday. Terrible shame but I don’t know what else I can tell you.’

  Brook looked around the bare room – at the TV with various black boxes stacked in a pile underneath, wires heading off in all directions towards sockets; at the sofa and a lone armchair; at a pair of fully laden dumb-bells nestling in a corner. He could make out little else in the room, though it was hard to see with the venetian blinds closed. He sauntered over to the window and pulled the blind up sharply, allowing the low sun to flood the room and pick out the blue-brown toxins of cigarette smoke. For good measure he opened a small casement to freshen the brewery air, then nodded at Noble, who closed the door to the hall.

  Fry held a hand to his eyes, smiling faintly. ‘If you’re thinking of beating me to a standstill, matey, you’re going to need help.’

  ‘We can open the door if it makes you feel safer,’ smiled Brook.

  Fry took a swig of beer and restarted his game. ‘Leave it open on your way out.’

  Brook considered for a moment, then looked around at the mass of cables and bent to pluck one from its socket. The room was flooded with the explosive roar of the cars racing around a virtual circuit. Fry threw his hands to his ears in terror, then banged, panic-stricken, on the console to pause the game and return the room to silence. He jumped up and advanced aggressively on Brook.

  ‘Do you know how many ways I could kill you right now?’ he seethed, a foot from Brook’s face, his shoulders flexing like a cat before a fight.

  Noble bristled and took a step towards the pair, but Brook halted him with a gesture, finding his grin. ‘Let me see. Is it more than one?’

  Fry narrowed his red-rimmed eyes and after a few seconds his breathing seemed to slow and he nodded at the middle-aged detective, a curious expression on his face. ‘You’d like me to, wouldn’t you? Fuck me, you would.’ He stepped back, his breathing returning to normal, and moved back to the sofa, turning off the game. ‘We could have used a few more like you at Camp Bastion.’

  ‘Flat feet,’ replied Brook.

  Fry laughed bitterly. ‘At least you’ve got feet. Ask your questions and keep it down. I don’t react well to loud noises.’

  ‘You can get treatment for PTSD, you know,’ said Brook.

  ‘Ask your questions or go,’ insisted Fry, swigging from his can.

  ‘Why were you banging on the door of the Gibson house before Christmas last year?’ asked Noble.

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You made quite a racket,’ said Noble.

  Fry gazed malevolently at him. ‘Wasn’t me.’ He grinned at a joke as yet untold. ‘And they’re not around to contradict me.’

  ‘You’ve misunderstood,’ said Brook. ‘We’re not asking if you were there; we already know you were. And you also spent a long time hanging on the perimeter tape after the bodies of your neighbours were discovered.’

  Fry smiled. ‘So DS Caskey told you.’

  ‘I saw you myself.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not much excitement around here. Course I’m going to see what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘You haven’t answered our question,’ said Noble.

  ‘Which one was that?’

  ‘A witness saw you banging on Mr and Mrs Gibson’s door,’ said Noble.

  ‘That’s not a question,’ he replied, staring at the two men in turn. He glanced at his watch and drained his can before standing. ‘I don’t have time for this. I have an appointment.’

  ‘The pub can wait,’ said Noble. ‘Unless you’d prefer to answer questions at the station.’

  ‘You and Miss Marple here taking me in, son?’

  ‘You forget we have half a dozen officers around the corner, Sergeant,’ said Brook, smiling.

  ‘It’s Mr Fry. I left the army, remember.’

  Brook nodded. ‘Mr Fry, you weren’t stupid enough to hit me just now and I seriously doubt you murdered the Gibsons. So let’s dispense with all this posturing. Tell us about the dispute and we’ll go away. I assume it was a problem with the decorating.’

  Fry’s expression tightened and aggression resurfaced in his eyes. He sank back on to the white leather, which squeaked at his arrival. ‘What decorating?’

  Brook flicked a glance towards the paint stains on his combats. ‘I’m a trained detective, Mr Fry. And the Gibsons’ living room was pleasantly refurbished.’

  Fry examined the paint as if only just seeing it. ‘I can give you my card if you’d like.’

  ‘Just answer the question.’ Fry didn’t
respond. ‘We’re not interested in untaxed income,’ said Noble, attempting to seal the deal. ‘This is a murder inquiry.’

  Fry took a deep breath, coming to a decision. ‘About twelve months ago I printed off a few flyers and posted ’em locally. I’m pretty handy, thought I might earn a crust working as a jobbing painter and decorator. It was a rough time. I’d been out of the army for about six months. Money was tight. And it was Christmas.’

  ‘You couldn’t find work.’

  ‘Not a chance. Still can’t. Not official. Not unless I want to stack shelves in the pound shop for a bag of peanuts. Help for heroes!’ Fry shook his head. ‘This fucking country.’

  ‘So you put yourself out there to do a little decorating?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And the Gibsons offered it?’

  Fry hesitated. ‘No. Their son rang me.’

  ‘Matthew?’ Brook glanced at Noble, remembering Gibson’s earlier denial.

  Fry nodded. ‘His parents were away for a week and he wanted a couple of rooms freshened up. He’d picked up my flyer so he asked me to do it.’

  ‘Which rooms?’

  ‘The bedroom and lounge.’

  ‘And?’

  Fry hesitated, choosing his words with care. ‘I did the work but Matthew Gibson … refused to pay me. Said some cash had gone missing or something.’

  ‘Did you steal it?’ asked Noble.

  ‘No,’ growled Fry.

  ‘And you felt aggrieved,’ said Brook.

  ‘I was owed and I’m not a thief.’

  ‘So you stormed round there to get your money.’

  ‘I don’t know about stormed,’ said Fry. ‘Their son lived out in the country somewhere so he wasn’t around. So I went to ask the old couple.’

  ‘But you were angry.’

  ‘It was Christmas and I needed the money, so when Mr and Mrs Gibson got back, I decided to go round and mention it. That nosy old trout next door,’ he said, shooting a glance at Noble for a rebuttal. ‘She must’ve got the wrong impression. I was banging loud ’cos they were old and a bit deaf. Anyway, turns out they weren’t home till the next day, so I went back then and told them I was owed money and that their son had refused to pay.’

  ‘Did you tell them why?’